


Anopheles Aristocrati

by DecoySocktopus



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Bugs & Insects, Deepthroating, Gangbang, Nonconathon Treat, Other, Oviposition, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-03-14 16:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18952165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecoySocktopus/pseuds/DecoySocktopus
Summary: She has a high, whining coo. Downcast gaze, eyelashes flutter; she unhinges her jawbone and sighs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aphoticdepths](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphoticdepths/gifts).



The grave robber had a name once. As pretty as the gemstones in her jewellery, now buried deeper than coffins. She used to dig for it, in the mud and tar that grimes her memory. These days she doesn’t bother. She was a lady. She was a thief. And now she belongs to the Court.

“Sweetheart,” breathes the Countess. She flutters her fan, waves about the scents of perfume and rot. Her mouth is hidden; a row of teeth shows through the lace. “ _Bonsoir, bonsoir, ma chérie._ How is my little pet feeling?” Her wig is white, soft as goose down. Her skirts cling like cobwebs to the cobblestones.

There is little point to responding. These creatures only care to listen to themselves.

“You look stronger today, precious,” says the Countess. “Have you eaten? Have you slept? Do the servants see to your every need? The kitchen fires are always burning, you mustn’t be shy. Sweetmeats and teacakes and vintages from France; you only ever have to ask. My poor darling, you are always much too pale. We must find something to bring a flush back to your cheeks.” Her chitin gleams in the red torchlight; she keeps it polished.

A servant passes. He offers a silver tray on two forelimbs, dainty slivers of viscera arranged like rose petals, pinned with silver toothpicks. They bleed gently. They will still be warm.

She turns her face away as the Countess dithers over the snacks.

The kitchens are cold; the ovens pulse with clutches of bulbous, twitching eggs, and the shadows flutter with stained aprons and gossamer wings. The cutlery shines like compound eyes. They pour from champagne bottles, but what they pour is red and dense and half-congealed. Slop for the servants. The high-born folk drink fresh. They feed her plates of old bread, tinned sardines, dried rations they loot from visitors to the Courtyard. She won’t eat anything else. She will not touch the meat. She’s seen where they get it from.

“I think we might try again today, my little dove,” says the Countess. The fan hides her mouth as she chews, but the blood drips down her jaw and throat. A messy eater ( _no manners. None of them have any manners_ ). “Would that please you? Of course it would. Come along, my sweet. I know you don’t like the servants watching. And then, perhaps, champagne to celebrate.”

Two months or more they have had her in their Courtyard, where the rain pools like tears on the cobblestones, and the bleak marsh swamp has swallowed the rose gardens. The rest of the party is gone; one devoured, one vanished, one still hanging from the ceiling like a thief on the gallows, dripping gently into supplicant mouths. And her. Despoiler of the departed, bane of mausoleums, robber of graves, ( _but still a lady for all that_ ). She thinks that’s why the Countess keeps her. She thinks that’s what makes her _ideal_.

The noble insect’s boudoir is a shameful thing, all over with dust and bloodstains and putrefied flesh. In the corner, a pile of rags: clothes, trinkets, daggers. A hat so truly unfashionable, no one else would take it. They have left her things alone. She may not wear them; she walks naked around the Courtyard, her bare feet soft on stone, pale as a ghost. Months, they have had her. But she endures.

“I must look a lady next to you,” she decrees from her dutiful place ( _in the unhappy marriage bed_ ), hands tied with dainty, unyielding silk knots, legs spread wide. They have learnt to hold her down; how many did she maim with her bare hands in the first days? The wings are so fragile, so tempting, they can hardly blame her. “Fetid, twisted creature that you are. I have an eye for things of value, and you are not among them. Get your damned claws off me!” She always finds her tongue when it no longer matters, when all the bile she spits is waved away with a flutter of the Countess’ fan.

And then the fan is dropped. It is so much worse after that.

There is little left of the Countess’ mouth; just the teeth and wet raw red of her exposed gums, her flayed cheeks weeping wounds. Odd clicking noises emit from her jaw when she speaks. Small dislocations, little bones pushed into shapes they no longer like. She has a high, whining coo. Downcast gaze, eyelashes flutter; she unhinges her jawbone and sighs. Something writhes its way up from the back of her throat, some massively misshapen tongue, some unnameable appendage that she hacks up past her teeth to fall upon the ( _thief, grave robber, once a lady, still a lady_ )’s chest.

“Madness,” she mutters; she does not like to look at that awful atrocity, pink and wet, pulsing like a broken heart. “You are mad, and I am mad, we are all of us stricken by it.” It tickles her navel, and she snickers. The sound doesn’t suit her. “Well, do your worst, I have always liked a little sting in my roses. A little prick with my needlework…”

They have shared this dance before, the steps are growing familiar; small variations, but the pattern is unchanging. Spindly red-tipped finger-things extrude from the end of that terrible growth. They dribble a clear substance that sticks slightly where it touches her, depositing silky threads in the spaces between her ribs. Blind things, mindlessly seeking. They feel their way around her abdomen; they seek warmth, she has found, in the same way thieves seek shelter from the law, and graverobbers idle in mausoleums during rainstorms. But she has always been a cold-blooded creature, and her skin does not satisfy. The fingers crawl on. They quiver with every asinine step.

She can only wait. They have found their way inside her before, and her fear grows less pressing each time ( _she adjusted to grave dirt under her fingernails, she’ll adjust to this too, and more besides_ ). Soon she will be able to lie back, limp as a corpse, exuding a measured, ladylike disgust as she stares at the bed hangings and waits for this little trial to end. Such is marriage. For the moment, though, she is still afraid. Sickened that she is not, at least, allowed to _choose_ how she is debased by this unspeakable growth.

It has a liking for her cunt, she has learned. More often than not, the sticky, clinging fingers will crawl past her navel and between her legs, smearing her hair with their drool. They fumble for entry; she is never wet for them, she kicks and squalls and curses as they prod at her, quivering as their clumsy thrusts at last press inside her and begin to burrow deeper.

Their aim is less than admirable; she howls loudest when they miss her cunt and slip lower instead. She has screamed herself senseless, and the finger-shaped tendrils are just the beginning. The sluggish organ they drag behind them pulsates; there is a nasty gift bundled up inside that wet pink wrapping paper, and it is never an easy thing to receive.

But today it seems they have a preference for her mouth. The tendrils creep upwards, walking across her breasts ( _which she is somewhat proud of, and somewhat offended to find ignored_ ). Her chin is soon smeared with their extrusions. She opens her mouth.

“Hurry now, dearie,” she sighs. “I haven’t got all day; there are relics to rob and balls to attend, and my hair is positively unsightly. Hurry, hurry, the wait is the worst, I’ve such a hankering for solitude, be done with me and leave-”

Her open lips are enough of an invitation, and the slender tendrils slide easily between them. Her tongue is danced upon, coated with their sap, their milk, their sticky vintage. It is flavourless; a rare mercy, as her mouth and gums are coated in it, as she swallows convulsively and tells herself it is not the worst she has tasted.

Into her mouth and down into her throat; her lips spread wide around the pink, sluglike tube that burrows its way past her teeth. She could not bite down if she tried ( _and she has tried. It is not worth the consequences_ ). She can barely breathe, and all her screwed up courage starts to falter as the tube widens, as a bulging mass is pushed inexorably towards her mouth.

Above her, the Countess doesn’t move. Her eyes are closed; she is blissful, she is always so blissful at these times. It is as though some primal mood has overtaken her mind; the monster is unaware of anything but the seeking of heat, the burrowing, and the passage of the egg.

It chokes her as it slips into her mouth, its passage made easy by the tube’s saliva, and her own. She sucks in short breaths through her nostrils; her jaw creaks, groans. Her own protests are muffled. Pulling at the silk ties only hurts her wrists, and all her kicking is futile against the Countess’ solid, chitinous armour. She can only tilt her head back, elongate her throat and pray ( _but not for mercy; she is long past mercy, her crimes are unforgivable_ ).

Her throat bulges out as the egg is forced down it; she can feel it happen, though the angle does not allow a clear line of view, and she would not want to see it anyway. The windpipe, the delicate bones that keep her head in place; she feels them bend, feels her blood flow constricted and her breathing cut off. She swallows spasmodically. The tube pulses in response; she can feel it hum against her lungs. It thrusts, a slippery forward-backward motion that has her gagging, spluttering, pulling at her bindings.

She cannot breathe. Her lungs collapse under the pressure of the tube and its fat, wriggling contents; her mouth is full, her jaws stretched so wide they must surely break at any second. She cannot beg, and she cannot breathe, and her vision is growing grey. Black. She fights until the end.

As her body grows limp, the egg slides down the back of her throat.

And then she wakes. Alone, sometimes; more often retching as the pink, wet tube is pulled from her mouth, deflated and limp, its tendrils catching uselessly as they slide out from her lips and back between those of the Countess. The monster titters. She raises her fan; she is flushed all over, her shell a dull violet, her claws washed out red. She drags her bulk away on tottering claws, leaving her bitter lover to rest.

The eggs don’t take. They never do, and hours later her aching body will reject the limp contaminant, keening softly as it cools on the cobblestones. She has taken to splitting them open with knives or scraps of metal or wood, stabbing until the soft skin opens like melon peel, the embryonic fluid seeping uselessly into the cracks in the stone. A small revenge. And then come days of respite; she is beseeched to _recover_ , the courtesans titter and whisper their condolences. _Next time_ , they say. _Next time, perhaps, the larvae will find purchase. You should eat something and gather your strength. You should have meat. You should. We beseech you, scrawny thing, you waste away like a beggar._

“I am,” she tells them. “’Tis what I deserve. And now I find myself feeling faint; bring me teacakes! Bring me graveyard earth, I must smear my cheeks and mourn the better times!”


	2. Chapter 2

She weeps just once, on an evening when her unsteady fingers dig out the snuff box from among her pile of rags and trinkets, fumble it open and find it empty. Some diseased beast has robbed her; gorged itself senseless on her last remaining pleasure, licked the box clean, and the shock upon shocks is just one too many. She flings the worthless thing away from her and cries a couple of bitter tears.

It’s like the lighting of a torch on a summer’s night, like bread and honey by a beehive; the Court swarms her. Talons and fingernails rasp on her cheeks, tongues on her jawline, the crowd is abuzz. They choke the air with the flutter of gossamer wings and silk fans, they choke _her_ with the earthen stink of their rot. The Countess is gone, as she often is, gone to play with visitors, gone to hunt for a strong young thing to take her eggs. And she is a benevolent mistress to her lessers; her toys are shared by all.

Blood is shed, but not by her; the Court fight for her tears. Frenzied, they buzz about her, plucking at her arms and breasts and legs, her ragged hair.

 _More,_ the Court beseeches. _More of the diamond vintage, the disconsolate intoxicant, the taste of salt in our proboscis, more, more._

They frighten her tear ducts to drought. “Away,” she spits, battering claws from her face. She kicks, her bare feet catching on velvet and silk, bruising on chitinous shins. “Stand away, you beasts, you maggots! Kettle’s dry, we’ve finished all the tea, and you missed it. Come again some other day!”

Ill-bred, pig-headed creatures, they try to change her mind ( _and is that any way to behave around a lady?_ ). Warped and elongated faces nuzzle at her, kissing at her cheeks, her nose, her closed eyelids. They pinch her nipples with needled hands, twisting whimpers from her. Manservants are dispatched to the Courtyard outskirts, buzzing back with sharp swamp reeds.

They whip her. First her back and buttocks, each sharp lash accompanied by a coo from the courtesans, a hubbub that rises as she starts to bleed. Then they turn her over, flailing like an upended turtle. They whip her thighs where the skin is softest, and her stomach where the terror lives and never leaves. The pain is nothing. The jeering, the titters and gasps, those are worse. The glassy, button-black compound eyes- the worst. But she doesn’t weep again; a lady doesn’t cry before the common folk.

Eventually she bores them. Some wander away; sycophants and supplicants, squabbling over the bloodstained reeds, sucking them like sugar cubes. Some flutter off with their scraps of velvet and powder, to promenade the Courtyard gardens and drain any visitors dry of fresh gossip and fresher blood. Some to play with the other poor fools who should have heeded the same warnings she ignored.

Some stay with her awhile; she is a favourite of theirs, she is subject to their patronage, their admiration, and all that entails. A nobleman bows from between her spread legs, daintily pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her- just in case she changes her mind about the crying. She will not. But it’s a lace-edged trinket, almost clean, and she crushes it in one fist as he opens his breeches. Pretty handkerchiefs fetch decent prices on the market. Wealthy merchants like them for gifts ( _they like to pretend to higher stations than they deserve_ ). Lace is good. Lace is valuable.

She thinks about that as the first fat, misshapen cock is forced in dry, prising her cunt open without as much as a _by your leave, miss_. Oddly shaped, overlong and bulbous. Pulsating like a heartbeat, cold as the eyes of its owner. It’s the first of several, and then the buzzing noblewomen drive the men away with hisses and teeth, and have their turns instead. Their dainty, bone-thin fists thrust inside her; they twitter and hiss and compete for whose hand can make her shout the loudest. Their musks taint her tongue as they smother her with their painted, writhing thighs.

She never sheds another tear.

Eventually they leave her alone, to her bed of rags and her beauty’s sleep, awaiting the Countess’ return.

**Author's Note:**

> You have _very_ good taste in monsters, thank you for requesting this!


End file.
